The Complexity of Krexit

Last February when I handed myself my contract to sign, I felt as though I'd reached a peak of oddity. It struck me that I was as high up as anyone who doesn't possess a Korean passport can climb in this industry.

My choices then became to stay squatted at the top of the totem pole, to slide back down to where I was, or to walk left, right, or straight out of the system.  Staying and sliding are actions that require little effort.  Although the top of the ladder may seem scary, an object at rest remains at rest and, although cascading may come with splinters, gravity handles the exertion of force.  Unique, however, when compared to staying or sliding is walking. 

Before muscles even engage to move one foot forward and then the other, the mind must contemplate the three hundred and sixty degrees of potential direction, and decide.  After a decision is reached and physical strength is summoned to perform the actual act of walking, the mind must join forces with the body and transform the dream of endurance into reality. 

Krexit, Karen leaving Korea, is a paradoxically vague yet dense topic of deliberation.  It can be spoken of over ice cream cones and dissolved into a discussion of plane ticket prices, yet it has implications too great for any metaphor to encompass accurately.  

With the exception of the eight months from May 22, 2013 through February 14, 2014, I have resided in the Republic of Korea since the autumn after graduating from university.  Cell phone numbers starting with 010, all rising when the director enters the office, a cup of coffee meaning a $4 americano (iced if it's any season but winter and rarely consumed before noon), intentionally avoiding eye contact with strangers yet not being bothered about bumping into them, changing lanes  while turning corners, removing shoes before stepping up onto the raised floor where meals are eaten criss-cross-applesauce, the mountains and tunnels, the language that expresses not only meaning but age relation, status differential, and level of closeness.  Accepting cultural tidbits, first one and then two at a time, my habits have evolved and what I am used to is not what it used to be. 

Tweaks of behavior and little adjustments of thought... Change.

Now, going back to where I grew up, I know the roads, houses, and some of the neighbors' names, but I wonder whether to meet the eyes of strangers in town and it troubles me why no one stood to greet the director who just entered the office.  How can you tell two people's relationship if not from  the words that they choose and the affix that they either insert or leave out?  What do you mean come to a complete stop when the coast is so obviously clear?  Just a minute!  You forgot to remove your shoes.

Insignificant though they may seem, these examples begin to paint The Complexity of Krexit.

Thanks for reading :)

To Africa

I never wanted to go.  I thought it was nice that other people went, but I didn't want to take a bath in a barrel of cold water, walk barefoot down a dirt road, participate in a questionably quasi development project, or come out prizing a picture of myself in the center of a swarm of cute little black kids -- and that is what I thought of when I thought of going to Africa.

But no one asked what I thought.

And so I went to Kenya, as the go-between for a group of Koreans.

Each year, the Provincial Office of Education sends a team for two weeks to conduct ICT training, helping Kenyan teachers learn how to use computers in education.  My duties included assisting with the training and aiding with translation.  I didn't have a lot of energy to exert during the computer course, but my stomach started to settle just in time to translate for our department's director, who arrived midway through the trip.

It is a funny feeling sitting between a Kenyan and a Korean.  The Kenyan was late.  The Korean was early.  The Kenyan sat slouched to one side.  The Korean sat straight.  The Kenyan's eyes black.  The Korean's a dark shade of brown behind glasses.

One spoke.

The other looked lost.

The one who had spoken looked at me, as though he was waiting for me to convert the other's expression into something more agreeable than lost.

The lost one looked at me, too.  He was furiously searching my face for a clue as to what had been said so that he could quickly react in the most appropriate accord.

With both the Korean and the Kenyan looking at me in anticipation, I felt a bit funny.  I had to speak, but what I would have to say was what another had presently said and I would have to say it in such a way that the one who was lost would react agreeably, not only relieving himself of the fury of not knowing, but also satisfying the expectation of the one who had spoken and now sat waiting.

Only after understanding had occurred would the one who had spoken and the one whose role it was to react intentionally redirect their gazes away from me and toward each other to celebrate for a second their successful yet complicated communication.

The Korean cited several statistics, such as the number of teachers trained to date and stated that education is essential to a country's development.  The Kenyan agreed on the importance of education, expressed gratitude to the Korean and spoke of his hope for the program to continue ceaselessly.  The parties exchanged gifts and the meeting came to a close.

All that the Korean and the Kenyan understood had been said by me and yet I had not said a thing for myself.

Funny.

After all official duties had been dealt with, the Korean cohort, myself included, took off on a two-night trip to Masai Mara National Reserve.  Riding in an open-topped Land Cruiser, a local guide helped us spot wildlife on the savannah.

The land far and flat like ocean.  The sky boundless above.  Animals grazing alone, lying in patches, moving in massive groups.  When the sun set, everything appeared as gold.

The peculiar position of sitting between strikingly contrastive cultures.  The near transcendence of time and space while riding around the plain.

Perhaps it was wise that no one had asked what I thought of going to Africa.  

Now what I wonder is whether I will go again.

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Thanks for reading :)

Starting in Autumn

After completing 11 months of work at Do Your Best Academy in Seoul, it was fall of 2012 and I was planning to return home upon completion of the final month of my twelve-month contract.  Then, one evening on my 15-minute dinner break at work, my supervisor called.  He said that a kindergarten teacher at a sister institute of ours had disappeared overnight and they needed someone new, fast.  Would I be interested?  Sure, I guess I’d be interested in learning more about the position.  

The next day at 10am, I went in to the kindergarten for an interview.  The CEO told me how great of a workplace it was, boasted about the building design, and continued to raise the monthly rate until I agreed to sign a 6-month contract.  (Money was not my primary motivation, but with student loans sitting on my shoulders, it admittedly did help.)  And so I started, the very next morning, as a homeroom teacher at Lanpus English kindergarten.  

After spending fall and winter teaching kindergarten, I dedicated spring to studying Korean at a language institute.  Late in May of 2013, I went home, reunited with family and friends, baked bread, and tossed coats onto conveyer belts.  It was Valentine’s Day, 2014, when I returned to Korea to teach English in a rural public school.   

Nine months in to my twelve-month contract, I was enjoying working at Yanggu Girls High School and planning to stay a second year, when I learned that my position would be eliminated due to nationwide budget cuts.  I could stay in the province, but I’d have to transfer schools. 

Having had a good experience in the little town I lived in, surrounded by mountains and decorated with neon street lights, I put in a request to transfer to the only position available in that town at that time, at a prestigious boarding-type high school that admits only the top-ranked students from around the province.  

And so I signed on for another year and transferred to Gangwon Foreign Language High School.  It was a challenging but rewarding experience.  I got to know the students on a more personal level, seeing some classes for as many as four hours per week.  I loved teaching a course based on a novel and enjoyed exploring literary concepts with the students.  I signed up to stay on.  

  With students at Gangwon Foreign Language High School  

I was just about six months through the next year-long contract when I got a phone call.  The head coordinator, who worked at a desk at the Gangwon Provincial Office of Education (POE), had decided at the last minute not to renew his contract.  He needed to find a successor, fast.  Would I be interested?  Sure, I guess I’d be interested in learning more about the position. 

Two days later, I answered my phone and listened to a voice tell me that I’d been selected for the part and an official announcement had already been sent out, meaning there was no turning back.  I was to start training the day after tomorrow. 

 The Gangwon Provincial Office of Education 

I spent tomorrow making phone calls to co-teachers and saying goodbyes to my students.  Most accepted the news in a disappointed, yet overall fairly matter-of-fact manner.  A few seemed confused and asked why their teacher must go so suddenly.  One boy fell to his knees, shouting, “Ahn-dwae!” meaning “no” in Korean.  Another complained that her previous English teacher, the current head coordinator, had been whisked away from teaching her in middle school three years prior, and whined that now the Office of Education was taking another teacher out of her classroom.  The next day, I began training for the new role. 

 My desk in the International Education department 

Now, I am nine months in to my fourth twelve-month contract in Korea (the third with this employer).  Four months have passed since I began working as head coordinator at the POE.  As I review my time in Korea, I realize how flexibility has resulted in transitions and how those transitions have resulted in difficulty and development.

I have not sought out transition while living in Korea, but I have been open to it.  I have not refused offers even if I believed myself incapable of fulfilling their demands.  Instead, I figured I could at least try.

 Esther's visit! 

I tried to teach kindergarten and found that keeping up with kids is tiring, but learned that most of the problems in the grown-up world can be solved by following the advice that adults give to children.

I tried to carry on conversations in Korean and felt the frustration of being misunderstood, but learned that progress takes time and mishaps should not be meditated on.

I tried to teach English in the countryside and realized how hard it is to commute to work by bus, but began to appreciate the increased observations that came with the slow in pace.

I tried to coordinate the 267 foreign English teachers in this province and got angry at the seemingly unfair bureaucracy underlying everything, but learned that there are pieces imperceptible at first glance and all angles should be considered equally.

 Sunrise over the East Sea 

Tomorrow begins 2017 and I do not know what transitions the year may hold, but I have come to see the good in trying.  There will be challenge, but change will come, and learning something new is likely to make it worth it.

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Thanks for reading :)

Ten Years Later

I got my Oregon drivers license on my sixteenth birthday. I had practiced for nearly a year, first in parking lots and later on the road. At times, learning to drive was fun; at times, it was frustrating.

There was just too much to take in. I remember having to switch seats with my dad once, as I was so scared that I refused to even attempt starting his stick-shift truck on a hill, with a car stopped close behind us.

Another time, I was concentrating so hard on the rules of the road, trying to recall the distinction between a school bus's yellow flashing lights and its red flashing lights, that I forgot about the road in front of me and smacked right into the back of an already-stopped pickup truck.

Driving practice was scary, stressful, and sometimes startling, but by the time my sixteenth birthday rolled around, I had put in enough hours to pass the test without any real trouble.

The freedom I enjoyed from that day forward was fantastic. When dad, having just gotten home from work, was disappointed that we were out of ice cream, but mom was too busy preparing dinner to go grab another carton, I volunteered to take the car, and was able to get to Safeway and back - with an ice cream flavor of my choice - in 15 minutes flat.

And, when I wanted to go to prom with a few girl friends senior year, but no one else knew how to drive yet and all of us were too embarrassed to be escorted by our parents, I could volunteer to take the suburban, and transport our friend group to the venue and back, in style.

Now, I find myself ten years later. I am no longer sixteen, but twenty-six years old.

For the last two years, living in Yanggu, I have walked a fair bit and hitched rides with friends from time to time, but have largely relied on the little blue-and-white bus, that comes by about once an hour, to get me into town and back home again.

Riding the bus is interesting. You see lots of people that you wouldn't see otherwise, and sometimes overhear amusing conversations as well. It keeps you patient, always having to plan and wait, and doesn't give you much of a choice but to live slow.

As you may be able to imagine, though, riding the bus has its hardships, too. Picture waking up late one morning and getting ready as fast as you possibly can, only to rush down the stairs, swing open the front door, and see the bus just passing your apartment. With the next bus not coming for another hour, you are left with no choice but to call a cab, which will cost you 7,000 won - as opposed to the bus, which would have been only 1,100.

Similarly, after work, you might walk the twenty-minute path into town and decide to pop in a grocery store while waiting for the bus, which doesn't come for fifteen more minutes. Suddenly, you look at your watch. Having been immersed in comparing prices and expiration dates on the various brands of milk, you lost track of time and now will have to either: 1) pay 7,000 won for a taxi (again), 2) carry your liter of milk as you walk home (which takes just under an hour), or 3) sit on the bench at the bus stop and wait 60 minutes for the next bus home.

Having experienced both the benefits and the frustrations of relying on public transportation to make my way around this rural region, I decided that, if possible, I'd really like to relive that fantastic freedom that I'd felt at age sixteen.

So, I began to look into purchasing a vehicle.

Before purchasing a vehicle, I would have to acquire a Korean drivers license. Exchanging my U.S. license for a Korean one would only require me to pass the written exam, but would also demand that I send away for an apostille, which costs upwards of $245.

Hoping to avoid that cost, I decided to take route two and simply go through the process of getting drivers license from the beginning, the same way any Korean person would.

I figured that, since I've been driving for ten years now and have even rented a car and driven around Korea a handful of times, it wouldn't be too tough. So, I caught the 7:00am bus out of town, arrived at the nearest "DMV" shortly before 9:00am, and got in line.

After watching an hour-long safety video, I waited in another line to take the written test. The questions had been translated into English. Some were a bit vague. Others were quite obvious. Others still, I didn't have a clue about. I guessed my way through and came out with a whopping 66% - that's 6% above the minimum passing score of 60%.

With a blue stamp, indicating that I'd passed, on my paper, I waited in line again and registered to take the "functions test." I was to take the test on a bright yellow, manual transmission, four-door passenger car at 1:00pm. Again, I waited. I hadn't eaten anything since the coffee and pretzel I'd had for breakfast, but figured I could last. After all, how hard can a "functions test" be?

 

When they call your name, you get in the car, alone. A GPS tells you what to do. The "functions test" consists of: starting the car, turning on the windsheild wipers, turning on first the headlights and then the brights, turning on either the left or the right blinker, putting the car from neutral, into a specified gear, and then back into neutral again, starting to drive down a straight, 50-meter course, but suddenly stopping when cued to do so, quickly turning on the emergency flashers, and then continuing down the rest of the straight, 50-meter course. Sounds simple enough, right?

 

Well, the problem was that I didn't exactly know what the "funcions test" consisted of before I took it. I expected that an examiner would sit in the passenger seat and tell me what to do. I did not expect a GPS to give me the directions one time, in Korean, and then start counting down from five seconds while I struggled to figure out if this was one of those cars like my mom's where you pull the knob down to activate the wipers, or if it was like my dad's where you twist the knob forward. It was like my mom's. But I didn't figure that out until I'd already spent my five seconds pushing and pulling and twisting the knob in all directions, accidentally washing the windshield at one point as well. The GPS boomed, "MINUS POINTS!"

 

Next were the headlights, which I succesfully turned on. But, the word for "brights" in Korean sounded to me like the word for "hunting," so I had no idea what the GPS was talking about and failed to turn my brights on. "MINUS POINTS!" the GPS shouted again.

 

I think I may have turned on the correct blinker successfully but, after that, I had to put the car from neutral, into reverse, and back into neutral. I did not know the word for neutral nor did I know the word for reverse, but I did know that I was being instructed to do something with the gears, so I shifted into every gear I possibly could in five seconds. I didn't make it into reverse before I heard, "MINUS POINTS!"

 

Finally, the GPS instructed me to begin the straight, 50-meter commute forward. I started. The GPS exclaimed, "Emergency! Emergency! Emergency!" at which point I stopped and put my flashers on. I must have been too slow. A voice came out, loud from the speakers at the top of the buildling where the test administrators sit. "YOU HAVE FAILED," it bellowed, and an instructor on the ground quickly escorted me out of the vehicle.

 

Talk about sad. I got in line for the last time that day and asked when I could schedule a re-test. They answered that I had to wait three days before retaking the "functions test." It was Thursday, so I booked for Monday.

 

Over the weekend, I watched YouTube video after YouTube video and familiarized myself with the process of the "functions test." On Monday, I went to the testing site again and, to my surprise, found a friend waiting to encourage me on my second attempt!

 

We rehearsed the steps once more before my name was called. I got in the car, ready to demonstrate my knowledge of vehicle "functions" with a newfound confidence. The GPS only shouted at me once, for turning on my left blinker instead of my right, but hey, I've been known to make that mistake with English directions as well!

 

When I'd reached the end of the 50-meter course, unfastened my seatbelt, and gotten out of the car, I looked toward the speakers at the top of the building where the test administrators sit.

 

"Congratulations on passing! Have a nice day!" it beamed - words, which, in light of the circumstances, entered my ears like music.

 

 

Having passed the "functions test," I was then qualified to take the road test. The road test is about 5 km, or 3 miles. There are four courses: A, B, C, and D. I got course C. It consisted of pulling away from a curb, turning right at an intersection, driving straight down a two-lane road, and making a U-turn. Fortunately, none of those prospects appeared too nervewracking, when I reminded myself that I had essentially been training for this for the last ten years of my life.

 

What I hadn't been training for, however, was parallel parking. After returning to the "DMV" parking lot, I would have to parallel park for the first time - ever. Fortunately, there was time to watch a few quick YouTube videos, and it turned out alright!

 

Ten years after getting my drivers license, I was granted a second drivers license - this time, on my second try, in a foreign country, driving a bright yellow car. 

 

 

Happy to have passed, but having no means by which to commute to work, which started the day after that day, I rushed to a used car lot, test drove four different vehicles, and chose one. I handed over the money I'd been saving and was able to drive the car home that day and get it cleaned up the next!

 

 

I ended up with a 2006 Hyundai Verna. It has a diesel engine and something like a chain instead of a timing belt, which apparently never needs to be changed. When I got it, it had just about 100,000 km (62,000 miles) on it. And, not only is it my first car in Korea, it's my first car ever! So, as you can likely imagine, it's all quite exciting. 

 

 

I'd like to thank my mom and dad who taught me to drive in the first place, and my friends who supported me on the long road to getting a second license.

 

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Thank you for reading :)

Photos of Fall

Before winter takes full force, here are a few pictures of what I was up to this fall.  (If you'd like to enlarge a photo, you may be able to do so by clicking on it.)

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One morning, I woke up and walked the long, foggy road to work. It was nice to pass these flowers that bloom every fall, lining the otherwise dull street with color.

Over the Korean "Thanksgiving" holiday, a couple other foreign teachers and I went and watched the sunrise at Jeongdongjin Beach, which is famous for its view of the sun coming up in the morning.

One Friday, the International Education Department (which I am included in) at school went out for a hike up Samaksan in Chuncheon. Pictured immediately below are one of the older English teacher's wives (who was a faster and more skilled hiker than any of us!), myself, the native Japanese teacher, and one of the two native Chinese teachers. The view from the top was outstanding. 

After watching an open class one afternoon, our district's Korean coordinator took a few of us to the local white porcelain museum for a (guided) pottery making experience.

One weekend, I went to watch a ping pong (or should I say table tennis?) competition at the facility where I've recently begun taking lessons. I guess this is the speed I'm working toward...

I've continued to be involved with the local radio (well, podcast) program and recently found a few new people willing to participate, too.

This is a meal at one of my favourite Korean restaurants: grilled, seasoned chicken with soybean paste stew, green onion "salad," rice, and giant-radish kimchi.

A couple weekends ago, a few friends and I rented a car and went to the beach (again). This is a little, old-fashioned rest stop on the way. I'm holding a bag of puffed rice "crackers" that I bought to snack on. The word up top means "welcome." It was a cloudy, wet day, but we enjoyed watching the waves out a seaside cafe window.

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The weather was nice this fall, which made it easier to be a bit more active. The winter cold is coming quickly now, though, so I expect it'll soon take more intention to get out. 

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Thanks for reading :)

Learning Korean in the Countryside

The following is the script of the 10 minute "NET Talk" (Native English Teacher Talk; based on the concept of TED Talks) that I gave at the Gangwon EPIK Northwest Regional Workshop last week.  The intent behind my talk was to encourage foreign English teachers in Korea to study Korean by stating that it is not only a doable, but also a highly rewarding endeavour.  Whether or not it benefited the audience, preparing and presenting on this topic somehow seemed therapeutic to me.

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Good afternoon. I came to Korea for the first time in October of 2011, not knowing anything of the Korean language. Well, that’s not entirely true. I did memorize three useful phrases before getting on the plane. (1) 안녕하세요 “hello,” (2) 감사합니다 “thank you,” and (3) 비빔밥 주세요 “rice with vegetables, please.” But that was literally all I knew. I lived in Seoul when I first arrived, went to and from work every day, and spent my free time in my apartment, hiding from the outside world that I feared I wouldn’t be able to communicate with. I lived on the 14th floor, so I had a decent view. But I didn’t come to Korea because I wanted to look out a window.

I came because I wanted to share my language and culture with others while also experiencing a new language and culture myself. After some time, I found a Korean language academy and signed up. I took language classes on-and-off, as my work schedule allowed, and endured the tedious process of becoming functional in a new language. However, at functional, life was not much easier. I was at the point where I could go to the store with a sweater to return, state that I wanted to return it, and then not have a clue what the clerk said back to me. Sometimes, the return succeeded anyway. Other times, I left the store, sweater in hand, wondering who I knew that it might fit. Finding so much of my time consumed by work and feeling frustrated that I could not accelerate past sometimes-functional in society, I thought I’d leave Korea for good. (That was in 2012.) But, what I decided to do before leaving changed everything.

Before leaving Korea, I was determined to give the Korean language a fair chance to be learned. So, I finished my contract teaching English and enrolled as a full-time student in Sogang University’s Korean language program. For two and a half months, I spent my days studying – in a classroom in the morning, at a café in the afternoon, and over a meal or while taking a stroll in the evening. It was only then, after having lived in Korea for a year and a half, it was only when I committed a couple of months solely to studying the Korean language that I felt myself begin to shift from functional to conversational. And that was when I was able to start reaping the benefits of all the hours I’d invested in second language studies. 

Upon being hired by EPIK and beginning employment with the Gangwon POE, I realized how much my Korean language ability improved my experience as a native English teacher in a public school. First, I was able to hear information faster. While schedule changes, by nature, happen at the last minute, seeing them come out over the school messenger system or overhearing the Vice Principal making the initial announcement would give me a couple extra minutes of precious mental preparation time that I wouldn’t have had if I’d had to wait for my co-teacher to come find me and relay the news herself.

More significantly, being able to carry on a conversation, simple though it may have been, opened the door for relationships that would not have been possible otherwise. Before I had studied Korean, I often got vibes of disinterest from the other teachers at school, and I’ve heard fellow native English teachers say the same – sometimes saying that it goes beyond disinterest to ignorance or even outright avoidance. But, from what I’ve seen, these teachers do not intend their actions to have any effect on you personally. Instead, they simply fear that, were they to smile at you in the hallway or sit too close to you in the cafeteria, they might suddenly find themselves in a situation where they feel pressure to communicate with you, in your mother tongue. That is a scary thought for many Korean people, and I know because I’ve heard it said on several occasions.

One evening, I was walking from school into town to catch the bus home, when a young Korean math teacher pulled up and offered me a ride in her car. The first thing she said when I got in was, “If you didn’t speak Korean, I would’ve just driven past you. Not because I wouldn’t have wanted to offer you a ride, but because I would’ve had to speak English with you.” Clearly, the problem is not personal; it’s lingual. In another instance, I was in the school cafeteria eating lunch, when a middle-aged Korean language teacher started talking about the native English teacher that had been at the school the year before I came. She said, “I felt so bad for the previous foreign teacher. She always looked lonely just sitting at her desk, but none of us knew how to talk to her. She couldn’t speak Korean and we can’t speak English. Sometimes I’d be brave and say ‘good morning,’ but I never knew what to say after that.” Hearing this, too, made me realize: many Korean teachers, regardless of what subject they teach, actually are interested in their school’s foreign teacher. They simply don’t know how to talk to them, and are often too afraid to try. The good news is: this is a barrier that we, as foreigners in this country, have the power to overcome.

By being willing to try using a sentence you’ve studied, even if you get it all wrong, you can break the ice with a teacher who may want to talk to you, but be too scared to start a conversation themselves. More often than not, if you try to talk to someone, they will try to talk back. So, sit at your desk with your language textbook open at lunch time and try a sentence out on whoever passes by. A single sentence can start a conversation. And conversation can create space for meaningful relationships to blossom.

For me, it is the continual growth of such relationships that allows me to feel connected at school and in the community I live in. Through relationships, I am able to engage in the perpetual process of sharing, understanding, and growing, and that process is what inspires me to continue living in this country.

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Before I close, I’d like to introduce a couple of language programs that you can use to start, or continue studying Korean – regardless of whether you teach in a metropolis like Chuncheon or somewhere slightly smaller, like all of the other districts represented here today.

First, for those of you who want to study on your own time, with English explanations, check out www.talktomeinkorean.com. Talk to Me in Korean has all kinds of lessons and resources for all levels. Some are paid, but many are free. You can start from the alphabet, jump into grammar points midway, or skip to the intermediate section and listen to “Interactive Iyagis,” which are natural conversations that have both English and Korean subtitles to help learners follow along. I’ve tried studying through several different websites and, in my opinion, if you’re looking for flexible, then Talk to Me in Korean is great.

Next, for those of you who need a teacher, a schedule, homework, and tests to get you to actually do anything, look into KIIP: Korea Immigration and Integration Program. KIIP is a language and culture program run by the Korean government. The textbook costs 10,000 won. The courses themselves are free of charge. KIIP uses an online learning system where you log in at a set time and participate in a live class. The teacher explains the material and gives students chances to practice, just like they would in an actual classroom. When I was taking KIIP courses, I had class for two hours a day, every weekday after work. It was quite intense, but I learned a lot in a relatively short time. KIIP also gives you points toward upgrading your visa, if you think you might be interested in that in the future. So, for those of you who wish you could enroll in an intensive Korean language program, but can’t because of distance or transportation difficulties, I recommend looking into KIIP. You can find more information at their website, www.socinet.go.kr or by calling the immigration help line, 1345.

Finally, for you self-motivated souls who can go through a textbook on your own, but want a way to track your progress, try taking the TOPIK exam. The TOPIK, T-O-P-I-K, Test of Proficiency in Korean, is a standardized test held once every couple of months. It’s broken into two categories: TOPIK 1 is designed for beginners, and TOPIK 2 is geared toward intermediate and advanced learners. The test is typically held at Hallym University in Chuncheon, on a Sunday morning or afternoon. You can find information in English at www.topikguide.com or you can access the official website in Korean at www.topik.go.kr.

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Whatever method you choose, my hope today is that you will feel encouraged knowing that learning Korean is a process that is well worth pursuing, not only for the respect and understanding you gain, but also for the relationships you build with others, and, thanks to a variety of excellent online resources, studying Korean is a path that it is possible to make progress on, even while living in the quiet Korean countryside. Thank you.

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Thanks for reading :)

Korean in the Classroom

Overhearing students talking to each other in Korean is one thing; understanding it is another.

Whenever I start with a new group of students (which I did most recently last March), it's fun to see how long it takes before they catch on to how much I'm catching on to. 

When one student asks his friend the meaning of a word in the middle of class and I "just happen" to explain the meaning of that same word immediately thereafter, the class usally finds it a funny coincidence.

When I appraoch a small group to see how they are doing with the task I've given them, one student often whispers to his friend, "How do you say such-and-such in English?"  If the friend doesn't seem to know, but I've understood, I simply ask the group if they want to include something like such-and-such, and they often proclaim me a psychic.

After a few classes with a few too many coincidences and a bit too sharp of psychic skills, the students begin to ponder what seems to strike them as the final possibility:

Perhaps she understands us.

If I'm instructing the class, and I catch a student whispering about this possibility with a friend, I simply meet their gaze and give a quick, but clear smile.  Usually, frightened, they stifle a scream or sometimes, surprised, they can't help but giggle. 

It's a fun game to play with a new class and it seems to result in a slightly more open mind for both parties.  I get to see how much the students really did understand and how much they're still struggling with the content, and they get to chew on the fact that they've just been understood by a foreigner.

And, although it's usually either chit-chat or questions about what they're supposed to be doing in class, every once in awhile, I pick up a pretty neat nugget. 

At the boys' high school (where I teach one day per week) two weeks ago, one student thought aloud, "Today was the first day that the foreign teacher's class was actually interesting!" and, last week at the same school, one boy gazed upon a whiteboard full of sentences and wondered, "Wow! I can't believe we know all that!"

It's these less common, but more meaningful comments that help me to see what's working and what's not -- and it's always nice to know that something is.

* * *

 At break time during the 2-hour after-school lesson that I teach 
 once a week at the girls' high school, we went out to see the  
 infamous "autobike" that I've *cough* been riding around town on. 
 

* * *

Thanks for reading :)